


Reprieve

by fredbassett



Series: Stephen/Ryan series [87]
Category: Primeval
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:56:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lester has had the mother and father of all bad days and Lyle is determined to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reprieve

Lester stared at his computer screen with an unaccustomed feeling of helplessness. Despite the best efforts of easily the most organised assistant he had ever had the good fortune to work with, he’d still been fighting a losing battle all day. The latest budget review was turning into the sort of ordeal that made trial by fire look an attractive alternative.

Emails were flying around like angry hornets and had been since 6am that morning. By 8.30 he’d turned off the irritating ping that heralded each new arrival and by 11.47 he’d asked Lorraine to show him how to make the equally annoying little envelope in the right-hand bottom corner of his screen go away. But even without the constant reminder that yet more messages were awaiting his attention, he still felt under pressure to keep checking to see who else wanted a piece of his soul.

An altercation with the Secretary of State for Scotland on the subject of the time it had taken an anomaly response team to reach the outskirts of Glasgow did little to improve his mood. In two week’s time they would finally have their badly-needed helicopter support and that couldn’t come soon enough for all of them.

Lunch consisted of half a smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwich from the canteen brought to him by Claudia with an instruction to eat it or incur her wrath. He managed half of it and palmed the rest off on Finn who’d come to leave an expenses claim with Lorraine. The young soldier had a bottomless pit where his stomach should have been and hopefully enough discretion not to mention that he’d just wolfed down half of Lester’s lunch.

After that Lester mainlined coffee and ignored the side-effects of excess caffeine in his system. Every time he got the emails under 100, another batch was vomited up into his inbox by the malevolent demon that had taken up refuge in his computer. By the time he’d reduced one member of staff to tears, he’d earned a stern stare from Lorraine and had seen his coffee ration cut.

A budget meeting at 2.30pm set the seal on the day from hell, leaving him with nerves bow-string tight, even though by the end of it, he had managed to achieve the majority of his objectives, secure in the knowledge that no one other than his secretary had been aware of the various stunts he’d pulled. Sometimes Lester wondered if he would have had an easier life as an actor, or maybe a barrister. The skill set was pretty similar to that of his current position.

By 4.30pm Lester felt like he’d been pinned against a wall and battered from all sides. He’d lost count of the number of crucial decisions he’d made and the fucking emails were still mounting up. He was seriously considering putting on an out of office reply that said simply: James Lester does not give a shit. So fuck off.

An hour later, he’d been forgiven for the unfortunate incident with the weeping scientist and Lorraine had restored caffeine privileges. Fortunate, as otherwise he wouldn’t have stayed the course during a conference call on the cabinet office’s latest crisis management protocols seemingly designed to do nothing more than raise his blood pressure to dangerous levels.

The next two hours consisted of him shovelling more shit at high speed than the average worker in a sewage farm would see in a weekend shift. The burst of productivity that came at the expense of telling Lorraine to hold all calls for the remainder of the day served to get the emails awaiting attention into no more than double figures, but the disadvantage of glass walls in an office was that he could see the number of telephone notes that were building up in Lorraine’s out tray.

Oh yes, he should definitely have stayed in management consultancy.

* * * * *

“Are you going to come willingly, cherub, or am I going to have to make use of some of the more esoteric skills I’ve acquired at taxpayers’ expense?”

Lester looked up from the pile of festering drivel that passed for the minutes of the latest Civil Contingencies Committee meeting. His boyfriend was lounging decoratively in the doorway of his office wearing a pair of scruffy black jeans, a teeshirt that might once have been green and a pair of equally dilapidated trainers. From the fact that Lyle’s dark hair was wet and he smelled faintly of citrus shower gel, Lester deduced that the day shift had handed over to the night shift, so it was sometime after 6pm. The absence of Lorraine in the outer office confirmed that supposition. It was Tuesday, and barring an anomaly incursion, Tuesday was the day Lorraine went over to have tea with her sister

“It’s nearly 8 o’clock,” Lyle supplied. “I have been remarkably forbearing.”

“You’ve been on the firing range with Ryan,” Lester countered. Somewhere, buried deeply in his deleted items folder was a complaint about the number of rounds the soldiers expended on the ranges. He’d replied with a barbed comment about the inadvisability of decreasing accuracy thereby leading to the concomitant increase in collateral damage and left it at that.

Lyle’s sharp eyes gave an appraising glance across both him and the state of his desk and something in the soldier’s expression softened. “James, you look bloody awful and you’ve had sod-all to eat today. Even Finn said he had a pang of conscience taking that sandwich, but you know he hates wasting food.”

Lester knew that the use of his first name signified an end to their habitual games, and if truth be told, he was too tired to engage in much of their usual verbal sparring. “So if Finn ratted me out, how come you’ve left it this long before bollocking me for working late?”

“Because I’m a realist and you’ve got a job to do. But enough’s enough. Turn that bloody computer off, we’re going to get some food and then you’re going to have what passes for an early night.” By that he knew Lyle meant ensuring he was in bed before midnight.

Lester closed his eyes for a second in frustration. They’d both worked long hours that week and both the fridge and the freezer were almost bare. After the day he’d had, the though of setting foot in a supermarket was an unbearable, and even deciding which restaurant to call for a takeaway felt dangerously like a decision too far.

“Stop thinking, James,” Lyle said firmly. “You’ve spent all bloody day in over-drive and if you don’t get some rest you’ll be so fucking strung up tomorrow that you’ll make a mistake and tell some fuckwit exactly where to stick their budget and that won’t be healthy for any of us. So do as you’re bloody told for once and let me do the thinking for a while.”

Lester drew in a long, deep breath and exhaled slowly. Lyle was right, he couldn’t afford to lose his temper any more than he’d already done, but that didn’t make letting go any easier.

“Save the document you’re working on or I’ll do it for you,” Lyle said conversationally, but there was no mistaking the hint of steel in the soldier’s voice. For all his informal manner and unconventional ways, Lyle was capable of commanding instant obedience amongst the military contingent at all times and even managed to extract a modicum of compliance from the notoriously hard to manage civilians. Unlike his commanding officer, Lyle hadn’t yet had to resort to decking any of them, but implicit in his bearing was the fact that he wouldn’t hesitate to use his fists – or even the butt of his pistol – should it prove necessary.

So Lester knew perfectly well that Lyle never made a threat he wasn’t prepared to carry out and he was simply too tired to argue. He quickly saved his notes on the latest COBRA briefing and logged out of all the open programmes on his computer, earning himself an approving smile. When he threw the keys to the Mercedes over to Lyle, the smile turned into a grin. Lester briefly debated taking his briefcase and laptop home, but surrendered to the inevitable and locked them both in the wall safe in his office.

“You really must be feeling like shit as well as looking like it,” Lyle commented.

“I am sick to fucking death of arguments,” Lester said. “And I’m equally fucking sick of taking decisions, so if you want to have baked beans on toast for tea – always assuming that the bread hasn’t turned into something better suited to an exhibition in the Tate Modern – that’s fine by me.”

Lyle sipped one hand behind Lester’s neck and drew him close for a very brief, almost chaste, kiss on the lips. “I think we can do better than that.”

* * * * *

The drive into London was surprisingly relaxing. Lyle handled the car with a stylish mix of skill and barely-concealed aggression, but stopped just short of needing to employ Connor’s hacking skills in a clean-up operation. By the time the car slid smoothly into the underground car park beneath the flat in Whitehall Court, Lester had been asleep for at least the last half of the journey.

He blinked at Lyle and asked, “Have I been snoring?”

“Not much, and you haven’t been drooling either.”

Once inside the flat, Lyle promptly set a large gin and tonic in his hand and propelled him into the bedroom for a change into something more casual. Lester stared at the floor to ceiling wardrobe and contemplated going straight to bed. That at least wouldn’t involve any decisions about what to wear.

“Strip off and have a shower,” Lyle told him. “After that we’re going to eat out. The bread looks like it’s about to make a bid for freedom, and the contents of the fridge have declared themselves an independent republic. I’ll send a peacekeeping force in tomorrow before Mrs Grainger hands in her notice.”

Lester winced. He certainly couldn’t afford to lose his cleaner. She was all that stood between him and the total breakdown of order within those four walls. Her father had been a Regimental Sergeant Major in the Parachute Regiment and even Lyle knew better than to cross her. Under Lyle’s watchful eyes, he stripped, hung his suit up – he had some standards, even when he was dangerously knackered – deposited the rest of his clothes in the washing basket and then surrendered to the undoubted pleasure of hot water.

By the time he’d towelled himself and his hair dry, Lyle had laid out some clothes on the bed: an old, comfortable but still almost respectable pair of jeans, a soft cotton shirt that had faded with multiple washes, and a dark blue cashmere sweater. Lyle had even got out socks and underpants for him, as well as leaving a pair of casual shoes at the foot of the bed. No decisions needed.

Lyle didn’t bother to tell him where they were going for a meal, but as they walked along by the Thames, savouring the warmth of the evening sunlight, Lester soon worked out that Lyle was steering him towards his club, a familiar environment that Lester could relax in as well as he could relax anywhere. Political machinations were frowned on in there anywhere other than in one particular lounge, which Lyle would certainly be sure to avoid.

The doorman smiled as they approached and held the brass-trimmed doors open. “Sir James, Lieutenant Lyle,” he greeted.

“Hello, Max, sometimes I wonder if you’re ever off duty,” Lester said. Max Bebbington had been the doorman at the club as long as Lester had been a member and he never seemed to age. It was nice to know that some things never changed.

Lester settled himself into one of the wide, leather armchairs in front of an enormous fireplace, currently piled high with pine cones. The fire was lit from the first of September to the first of May, inclusive, whatever the weather. There was something to be said for routine. Lester could feel the pressure of the day start to leave his over-strung nerves.

Lyle sprawled out in a chair opposite him on the other side of the smoke-blackened iron surround. Like Lester, he was now fully at home here. The nature of their relationship was no secret, and in the ‘anything goes as long as you don’t frighten the horses’ tradition of London’s long-established gentlemen’s clubs, they excited no unusual interest. A smile twitched at Lester’s lips as he remembered their activities in the opulent toilets on Lyle’s first visit to the club. From the look of amusement on Lyle’s face, he clearly wasn’t the only one whose thoughts had turned in that direction.

Two large gin and tonics – Hendricks with a slice of cucumber – appeared at their elbows. Lester sipped his appreciatively. When one of the waiters came to check if they wanted food, Lyle ordered for both of them: tomato soup followed by steak – rare – with chips, peas, mushrooms, onion rings and an egg. Lyle had clearly decided he needed a hefty dose of both protein and carbohydrates, and Lester wasn’t grumbling. Again, no decisions needed. Giving up control wasn’t something that came naturally to him, or to Lyle for that matter, but they’d gradually learned to relax into their relationship, Lyle’s first with a member of the same sex, and Lester’s first for many years. Ultimately, the success of the relationship centred less on gender than on the give and take that any partnership needed to survive, something that had been sadly lacking in Lester’s marriage.

Lyle, for all his casual veneer of irreverent humour, knew when to drop their games and, as earlier, the use of their first names rather than the ever-inventive façade of pet names that they bandied between them to the mixed irritation and amusement of their colleagues signalled that no pretence was needed. Like most lovers, they’d experimented in various directions, and for all the fact that Lester enjoyed giving up on control on occasion, they had never wandered into some of the more esoteric highways and byways of sex. Although Lester had on one celebrated occasion made inventive use of a dog-lead. But when it came to dominance games, neither of them found that to be a direction they wanted to take. For Lyle, trained to hurt and kill in the service of his country, taking such practices into the bedroom held no appeal.

As Lester knew all to well, his lover had been subjected to violent abuse in the course of his employment, and bore the scars on both wrists of having been restrained with barbed wire, so bondage games were most certainly off the agenda. For Lester, used to the need to navigate the shark-infested waters of both Westminster and Whitehall, there was a limit to how far he would go in abrogating his habitual need to be in charge of any given situation. But when it came to choosing the perfect food for any occasion, Lyle couldn’t be bettered.

“Faggot and peas in the Hunters’ on Saturday night,” Lyle said, demonstrating for the umpteenth occasion his preternatural powers of anticipation. “You can slob out in the garden while I explore caverns measureless to man.”

“That miserable excuse for a dig is certainly measureless,” Lester acknowledged. “I doubt we’ve got a survey tape short enough.” Even he had yet to be convinced about the merits of Lyle’s latest obsession with a crack at the bottom of a depression in the field next to Drove Cottage. Lyle claimed it had promise. Lester counter-claimed that the lieutenant stood a better chance of being on a promise with the determinedly heterosexual Finn than he had of that particular dig proving successful.

“Oh ye of little faith.” Lyle sipped his gin appreciatively. “Do you think Paolo would object to a weekend in the countryside catering to our every whim and plying us with booze?”

Lester glanced over at the barman and smiled. “I imagine his girlfriend might have something to say on the subject.”

“She could come too.”

Lyle kept the talk light, not letting Lester dwell on the irritations of the day, but nor did he deliberately fill every silence with meaningless words the way Lester’s wife had always done. Their silences were as comfortable as their conversation, both of them taking the time simply to sit and watch the easy drift of other club members around them, catching snippets of gossip here and there and occasionally chatting with friends and acquaintances.

By the time they were called to the dining room, two drinks had definitely put a better complexion on the day, and an excellent meal followed by a generous measure of a particularly fine cognac rounded things off very nicely. The walk back to the flat was unhurried. Lester enjoyed the almost mindless bustle of London at night, and he knew Lyle liked watching the interplay of light on the dark water of the river and the almost ceaseless movement of pleasure craft, crowded with tourists and partygoers.

Back in the flat, Lyle poured a final nightcap for each of them and they settled down together on the sofa facing the picture window with its unparalleled view of the slowly-revolving London Eye, the room lit by no more than a small table lamp.

Lester leaned his head against Lyle’s shoulder and said softly, “Thanks for this evening, Jon.”

Lyle wrapped his arm around him and pressed a kiss into Lester’s hair. “It’s not over yet. Close your eyes and hold your hand out.”

Intrigued, Lester did as he’d been bidden. He felt the hard outline of a small box in his palm. On Lyle’s command, he opened his eyes and flipped open the lid to reveal a pair of stylish gold cufflinks. Lester drew one out of the black velvet and twisted it in the light of the lamp to reveal some intricate silver tracery. As he looked more closely the thin inlay resolved itself into letters and a moment later the letters resolved themselves into words.

Piss off, I’m busy.

Lester let out a sigh of pure contentment. “Thank you, Jon, they’re perfect.”

He’d wear them the following day to his meeting with the PM.


End file.
